


Bloat

by KoreArabin



Category: SS-GB (TV), SS-GB - Len Deighton
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Come Inflation, Humiliation, M/M, Nudity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9933620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: It’s never a good idea to venture into the dreary parts of the capital.  Not only are they miserable, mean and grey, they’re populated by the meaner sort of person.  The sort of person who won’t think twice if a high-ranking fucking Nazi bastard is suddenly within his sphere of power.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s never a good idea to venture into the dreary parts of the capital. Not only are they miserable, mean and grey, they’re populated by the meaner sort of person. The sort of person who won’t think twice if a high-ranking fucking Nazi bastard is suddenly within his sphere of power.

Winston Churchill wasn’t responsible for the state of modern day London. God knows, he’s responsible for a whole fucking lot of things, but the state of the country post Operation Sea Lion isn’t one of them.

Huth's decision to visit this dreary backwater has been prompted by the reports of Resistance activity. Never one to avoid an opportunity to track down and neutralise such destabling elements, he commandeers a vehicle and sets off, to see for himself if these rebellious British traitors can be identified, captured, and brought to heel.

He realises his mistake when his car is trapped between a military checkpoint and a local lorry depot. The lorries thunder in and out constantly, blocking the road behind his vehicle. The checkpoint, which should be manned by German soldiers, appears to be deserted. An incredibly bright torch light beams into Huth’s car window.

“Ausweispapiere, bitte.”

Reassured by the request, Huth delves into his jacket pockets for his papers. The sudden wrenching open of the car’s doors is a shock, but he reacts quickly, reaching for his pistol. His driver is not so quick-witted; he’s dragged out of the vehicle, thumped over the back of the head and left, ignominiously, lying in the rain dampened, greasy gutter.

 _Not even looking at the stars_ thinks Huth, irrelevantly.

Two pistols are pressed into his face simultaneously.

“Don’t even think about it, you Nazi fuck.”

The voice is deepest bass baritone, husky, with a strong hint of somewhere far north of London.

“You hand us your gun and then keep your hands where we can see them.”

Not wanting to receive two bullets in the face, Huth slowly retrieves his pistol and holds it up to be taken. 

“Now. Out.”

He exits the car with as much dignity as he can muster, determined to present a composed, authoritarian front to these mongrels, even if his heart is beating hard and fast in trepidation beneath his outward appearance of calm. His composure does not last long.

“You Nazi cunt. Down on your knees where you belong.”

The blow to the back of his knees is too hard to resist. He crumples forwards, sprawling on the grime of the street. His cap falls off somewhere and hands are immediately upon him, forcing his face down on to the filthy pavement.

“Got him, boys? You know what to do.”

He’s manhandled up, forced by a sheer wall of grasping fists and kicking feet forwards, unable to resist so many hands upon him. He tries, as hard as possible, to keep a mental catalogue of what he passes, but it’s near impossible. Endless rain-slicked grey walls and narrow alleyways merge into one unending impression of dreariness. When at last they drag him through a low doorway into what appears to be some sort of disused warehouse, he at last has something upon which to focus his mental energies.

The building is long, low-ceilinged, and dark. He’s dragged across the old, worn floorboards to a trapdoor, then manhandled down the narrow stairway to a series of what he assumes are old storerooms. The door to one of these is unlocked, and he’s thrown into a tiny, filthy cell.

“Overcoat, off. Boots, off. Then face down on the floor, arms and legs spread.”

He drags himself on his feet, staring them down, provoking them to do their worst.

“Righto boys, you know what to do now.”

Fists and batons close in on him from all sides. Hard blows to his legs leave him falling heavily to his knees, whilst the punches and kicks to his head and flanks make him cry out in pain. When they’ve reduced him to lying still on his side, curled into himself in a protective foetal embrace, they at last stop. His greatcoat and boots are stripped away, and then he's patted down again for concealed weapons. With a final, almost perfunctory, hail of blows, they one after the other spit their distain down upon him.

A bucket, sloshing with what he assumes is water, is pushed into the cell. With one last blow, a vicious kick between his legs which leaves him retching, they leave him alone.

“Try calling out, you Nazi scum, and we’ll be down to cut your tongue out.”

Not doubting them, and dizzy with pain, Huth again curls in on himself and welcomes the nothingness of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

He comes to aching, stiff and cramping on the cold floor. Huth slaps his arms, his legs, his torso, trying to get the circulation moving. He’s gasping for a drink, too. He remembers the bucket they shoved into his cell; it’s still there, and he crawls over to it and sniffs. It seems odourless enough. He cups his hands and takes a hesitant sip. It tastes okay, too. He drinks greedily then, thirst sated, he begins to explore his prison. 

It’s clearly an old storeroom. There are strips of rough sackcloth in a pile in the corner, and what appear to be dried up cereal grains scattered across the floor. The floor is solid – thick, worn flagstones, and two of the walls are formed of old brickwork. The other two walls, the one in which the door is set and the one to the left-hand side, are stout timber, clearly later additions to what assumes was once a large, open undercroft.

He tries the door, but it’s locked tight. The timber wall is pretty solid too, stout planks nailed tightly together. There’s no getting out of here without some form of implement to wrench the slats apart.

Then, he hears movement outside. Scurrying back into the corner, and wrapping his arms around his legs, he waits. 

The light from outside momentarily blinds him, then is largely blocked out by the large figure filling the doorway. The man at the door peers into the dark cell and spies Huth crouching in the corner.

“So, Nazi scum. Enjoying our hospitality?”

When Huth makes no reply, the man turns and speaks – presumably – to those accompanying him.

“No matter, German pig. You’ll be squealing, loud and long, well before we’re finished with you.”

Suddenly, the light is blinding him again. The doorway’s empty. Huth hesitates. They won’t have made it this easy; they’re hardly likely to go to the trouble of dragging him down here, just to let him escape at the first opportunity. Even so…

He creeps silently forwards, listening for any small sound outside the cell. There’s nothing and so, with an athlete’s natural grace, he rises to his feet and runs for it.

Immediately, there’s shouting and whooping and he realises there are a lot of them outside. He runs blindly, making for the other end of the room, to where he is sure the narrow staircase is located. 

He cries out in pain as something – a belt? A whip? – slashes across his buttocks. There’s laughter and jeering and then he’s lashed again, a sharp, burning strike across his chest – his nipples. Another catches him behind his left ear and, immediately, he feels a warm flow of blood soaking into his uniform jacket and shirt collars.

“That’s it, lads. Make the fucker scream!”

He runs and dodges and fights as hard as he can – he can see the staircase, he can see that the trapdoor’s open. He has to make it, he has to get out. Once he’s out, it’ll be easy to find someone – even a Brit – who’ll help him because, well, because that’s what the majority of these conquered people will do. 

_Schafe oder Rinder._

More blows rain down upon him, but he keeps running, running desperately until, suddenly, there’s a whooshing sound and something falls over his head and tightens around his neck. A lasso. A _noose_. 

Huth falls heavily, choking as the rope around his neck cuts off his air. Immediately, he’s surrounded, faces staring down at him as he struggles on the floor, clutching at the rope burning the skin of his throat.

Even as he writhes below them, he can’t make sense of the faces. They don’t look right; there’s no definition. There are dark patches for eyes and mouths and lighter patches for noses, but they’re all muted.

Then, as at last the rope blessedly loosens, and he can breathe again, it comes to him. They’ve all put stockings over their heads to disguise themselves. At the same time as apprehension of what’s coming next makes his bowels twist in fear, there’s a hint of hope too.

_If they don’t want to be identified afterwards, there’s a chance he’s going to live._


	3. Chapter 3

He’s manhandled upright and dragged to another part of the undercroft. This room couldn’t be more different to the one in which he was previously confined. The floor is covered with some material which, if not exactly carpet, is thick and soft and warm. To the right of the room, a fire burns in the grate inside an ancient stone fireplace, before which is a huge, thick, fur rug. Just behind the rug are two plushily upholstered, sumptuously cushioned armchairs.

To the left is a small dining table, set for one with gleaming cutlery and delicate china, the crystal glassware sparkling as it reflects the flickering light of the fire. Towards the rear of the room is a darkened area, which appears to be curtained off from the rest of the room. Huth is deposited into the chair at the dining table, and his entourage of minders withdraw, leaving him momentarily alone.

As he is about to get up and explore the room, the door opens and a mild-looking, bespectacled man enters.

“Ah, my dear Doktor Huth. I do apologise for your treatment at the hands of my - what can I say – less _refined_ associates. I was, unfortunately, unable to be here when you arrived, as I have only just been able to escape from a previous commitment. Please forgive me.”

The man’s speech and diction suggests that he is intelligent and educated. Perhaps a professional man, or an academic, Huth surmises. Most probably an academic.

“I really do not care to hear your pathetic apologies. This treatment is an outrage, and shall be reported to the relevant authorities and the appropriate action taken. But, right now, I demand that you return me to the police headquarters at once.”

The man blinks and smiles, somewhat benevolently, as if to reproach Huth for his lack of manners.

“All in good time, Herr Doktor. For now, I would be pleased to invite you to eat and drink with us. We have good food and – may I say - quite _exceptional_ wines, and it will be my pleasure to indulge you.”

Huth begins to rise, not quite believing that this fellow – this _Engländer_ \- is not stuttering in fear and rushing to obey him.

“Did you not hear me, you pig? Take me to the police headquarters - _now_!”

Before he’s shouted the last word, several men enter the room. Within seconds, Huth’s wrists are handcuffed to the rear legs of the chair, arching his torso painfully backwards, and his ankles are secured to the bottom of the chair legs. A strap is secured around his neck, and fists twisted painfully into his hair yank his head back and down, so he is left staring up at the ceiling above.

The mild mannered academic looks down at him, his expression faintly apologetic. He lifts up a coil of long, thin, clear plastic tubing, and rubs it against Huth’s cheek.

“Have you ever been force-fed, Herr Doktor? No? Then I shall explain it to you. If you refuse to eat and drink, then we will administer your meal by means of this thin plastic feeding tube, which will be passed through your nose, or mouth, into your stomach. If you resist, you will be restrained. If you continue to resist then, well, we have - thicker - feeding tubes. Which will, of course, be so very much more _unpleasant_ for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Huth feels physically sick at the thought of having a tube forced down him into his stomach. He's heard of such things taking place, of course, to deal with stubborn prisoners who insist on staging hunger strikes to protest about something or other, or as a means of humiliating and torturing opponents. Naturally, he hasn't ever done it himself or even ordered it to be done. Such things are better left to those lower down in the ranks. An officer like Herr Doktor Huth wouldn't deign to dirty his hands with such matters.

The strap around his neck is tight to the point of strangulation, but he manages to choke out a gravelly, "Please."

"Please what, Herr Doktor?"

The mild-mannered academic motions to the man holding the strap, and Huth gasps, drawing in a great breath of wonderful oxygen.

"Do not use the tube. I will - I will - _cooperate_."

He continues to stare at the ceiling, not wanting to meet any of his captors' eyes. He cannot believe that he is so weak, that he gave in so easily, or that he _pleaded_ with them. 

"Very well. You will drink."

Huth is confused, expecting to be freed to sit and eat and drink at the table, but it appears that his captors have other plans. His head is allowed forward, and a glass of deep red wine raised to his lips. He drinks, cautiously.

The liquid in the glass is thick as syrup, sweet and fiery, with a strange gold sheen which he cannot before recall noticing on wine. It burns all the way down his gullet to his stomach, where it settles, hot and heavy. The glass is pressed to his lips again, and he swallows more of the fiery liquid.

It must be strong; already he feels slightly light-headed and a little giggly. Giggly? If there is one thing that Standartenführer Doktor Huth is most certainly not, it is _giggly_.

Still, he blinks and rolls with it.

"So, Herr Doktor - or may I call you Oskar? You have sampled our wine, now you shall taste our syllabub."

Huth frowns, trying to make sense of the word.

"Vot isht shyllabub?"

Mild-mannered academic smiles.

"Of course, a German gourmand might not be acquainted with our English syllabub. It is a dessert made of whipped cream, wine, sugar and lemon juice. One of the key ingredients of our syllabub is another wine, similar to the one you've drunk, but perhaps somewhat stronger. Ah, here we are."

Huth, to his embarrassment, is faced with a spoon loaded with a frothy pale pink/yellow creamy pudding.

"You will be fed, Herr Doktor, and you will eat."

Huth opens his mouth, resigned to the humiliation of being spoon-fed. The syllabub is not too sweet, but strongly laced with alcohol, and cool, creamy and delicious. He eats greedily, as spoonful after spoonful is fed to him. At last, when he feels that his abdomen is beginning to swell slightly with all that he has eaten and drunk, his mouth is wiped clean with a napkin and he is allowed to fall into a doze.


	5. Chapter 5

When he wakes, it takes some time to remember where he is. He is lying flat on his back, apparently on a bed, his arms stretched wide above his head and his legs similarly spread. He tries to move, but his wrists and ankles are firmly secured to the corners of what appears to be a heavy wrought-iron bedstead. 

His uniform jacket has been removed, leaving him in his breeches and shirt. Huth struggles against the restraints, but his movements seem sloppy and uncoordinated. He feels almost as if he is drunk, but there’s something more than that. He gasps as an unexpected, _searing,_ surge of arousal rolls over him. 

Immediately, he’s rock hard, his cock pressing insistently against the crotch of his breeches. He struggles more but that only rubs the head of his straining prick more forcefully against the thick fabric. Suddenly there seems to be nothing more important to him than obtaining release, nothing other than the overwhelming need to orgasm. He wants it – against his better judgement he needs it – he _has_ to be able to come. Panting, he rolls his hips, buttocks flexing and bouncing against the mattress as he tries to fuck the seam of his breeches.

He groans as another blistering wave of arousal surges through him. His nipples have always been particularly sensitive. He has always enjoyed his lovers playing with them, teasing them – _tormenting_ them, even, but they have never been so desperately hard and stiff and suddenly so acutely sensitive as they are now. Simply rubbing his chest against his shirt is provoking an almost, _almost_ orgasm but, chase it as hard as he can, he cannot quite get there. 

Huth writhes in his restraints, barely conscious that he is dripping in sweat, his cock leaking copious amounts of pre-ejaculate, soaking a dark, rapidly spreading stain into his silver-grey breeches.


	6. Chapter 6

Huth is so far gone in chasing his almost-orgasm that he doesn’t hear the door opening. He startles, panting hard, as a cool hand brushes the sweat-drenched hair back from his face.

“Enjoying yourself, Herr Doktor?”

Huth snarls and snaps at the hand, trying to bite, but provokes only a chuckle and a slap to the face. He whines as the man leaning over him palms his straining cock through the fabric of his sodden breeches. He realises that he is surrounded by the crowd of masked men from earlier, and struggles harder against his restraints.

“Look at him – he’s soaking wet.” Huth flushes as sniggers and catcalls break out around him.

“What a tart! I thought these Germans were big, scary men of steel, but this one’s a little slut – look at him – he’s desperate for it”.

There’s more laughter as the man who slapped him earlier grabs a handful of hair and wrenches Huth’s head up, hissing into his face.

“Is that what you are, Herr Doktor? A dirty little slut, desperate for a good seeing to?”

Despite’s Huth’s protests and struggles, he is unable to prevent them stripping away his shirt and his sodden breeches and underclothes. Huth blenches with mortification as the catcalls become wolf whistles, and he’s assaulted by a mass of groping, probing fingers. 

“Look, boys! He likes his nipples being squeezed. You do like that, don’t you, darlin’? Your cock’s leaking like a tap when I pinch them.”

“Want something inside you, liebling? Something thick and hot?”

“His cock’s rock hard - fuck me, that looks painful!”

“Yeah, he’s ready for some fun, alright.”

The leader squeezes Huth’s testicles, and Huth jerks away violently, even though the touch is relatively gentle. The leader chuckles at the recoil, and pats Huth’s side, as if calming an animal. 

“Shh, Herr Doktor. We’re not going to do anything to you that you won’t be begging for more of, before we’re finished with you.” He holds up a device formed of loops of black leather. “Do you know what this is, liebling?”

Huth shakes his head, eyeing the straps apprehensively.

"It goes around your cock and balls, snug, but not too tight. Not at the moment, anyway. It will let the blood flow in, but not out, so you’ll just keep getting harder. And since the skin of your cock can't move the way it normally does, you'll become more and more sensitive all the time it’s on you."

The leader fastens the cockstrap efficiently over Huth’s genitals, then smiles at him, a wicked glint of malice in his eyes.

“You’re delicious, Herr Doktor. Being trussed up in black leather suits you. We are going to have so much fun with you. And, don’t forget, I’ve promised you that you’ll be begging us for more before we finish with you.”


End file.
